Page 45 of The Duke of a Thousand Desires

“It’s necessary if we are to have an uninterrupted honeymoon,” he said.

“But for our protection?”

“Let’s hope we don’t find out. I’d rather be prepared than not.”

A rumor had been passedthrough London that the duke would spirit his bride away under cover of darkness to his villa for their honeymoon. A few diehard romantics took up a street vigil after the wedding reception to observe this event. It was worth another wait in the drippy mist to be part of a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Especially since it was supposed to be a secret.

The faithful received their reward. Later that evening the ducal carriage departed the marquess’s Park Lane mansion in a rumble of refined elegance. The vehicle’s glass lights blazed like the eyes of a mythical creature. The driver and footmen sported satin knee-breeches and an attitude of aristocratic insolence that impressed even the cynical city watchmen.

“The duchess waved at me,” a delighted lady of the night said from the gaslit corner where she and six other Cyprians had congregated with their bored escorts. “She was wearing diamond rings on her gloves. I’ve never seen sparklers that size. Like eggs.”

“The duke smiled at me,” one of her associates said with a sigh. “I’ve never seen a man as lovely in my life.”

It would have crushed these smitten followers had the true identities of the man and woman inside the elegant carriage been revealed. The fact that the decoy couple maintained their gravity until reaching their destination astonished them as much as it did their audience.

Isolde and Timpkins’s performance as the duke and his bride was so convincing, in fact, that on their arrival at Caverley House hours later, the staff fondly dubbed them the true master and mistress of the estate. The butler even joked that if the pair sneaked upstairs to enact the nuptials, no one would utter a word of accusation against them.

The merry reception so pleased Timpkins that he took it upon himself to ask a kiss of his leading lady as she returned to the carriage for the reticule she’d forgotten.

Isolde straightened and immediately put the steward in his place. “If you ask for a kiss, you ask for my hand. If you’re asking for my hand, I refuse -- unless you provide documentation of your financial stability and written proof of your intentions. I am no doxy. Furthermore, I don’t love you in the least. We don’t know each other well enough to kiss.”

“But I am employed by the duke.”

“And I by the duchess. I have set my standards high.”

He reared back as she set off across the drive, a shimmer of slender dignity in her mistress’s wedding gown. His pride was dented, but not destroyed. “Don’t put that dress where you can’t find it, love,” he said, striding after her. “You might want to wear it when we marry.”

She smiled all the way back to the house. “I’ll be laid to rest before I wear this to our wedding. Do not let today’s illusion cloud your thoughts. We are in this position because someone wanted the duke to die. If you showed a little more sense, I might show you my interest. You might pay closer attention to our surroundings than to my gown.”

“You’re right, of course.” Although in his view, it was possible to do both. Not only did he strive to emulate his master in appearance, but also in the unconquerable strength of his character. Timpkins had sensed for years that his master loved his new duchess. Still, the duke had waited and then, at the perfect moment, pounced. Well, pounce was an undignified word but his grace had certainly taken advantage of timing.

Isolde could laugh all she liked, but Timpkins was heartened by the knowledge that they would live and conspire under the same roof for many years to come.

He had time to improve his manners and his wardrobe and prove to her that he was erudite and well-read, despite his rough veneer. He would impress her with his dedication to the duke. And he would follow his master’s example and build a friendship with Isolde instead of mere physical longing as a foundation for romance.